The Bitter Pill
by LiteratiAngel
Summary: "She had the same cold, expressionless eyes that he sometimes saw looking back from his own reflection. The eyes of someone who has killed more than once." The Stryker van has haunted Alex since it took away part of his life. Maybe now he'll get answers.
1. Chapter 1

**The Bitter Pill**

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the _Alex Rider_ series, it all belongs to the genius that is Anthony Horowitz...**

**Disclaimer Take Two: I also don't own any recognisable products or companies, etc. that may get a passing mention in this story...  
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**Warning: This fic contains some mild, blink-and-you'll-miss-it SPOILERS for all the _Alex Rider _books, but particularly _'Crocodile Tears'_. If you haven't read it yet (do so!), and you don't want to be SPOILERED, look away now...(Please feel free to take a cookie or a gadget before you leave...)**

**A/N: I've recently rediscovered my love for the _Alex Rider_ series, in particular the intricacies of the different characters, so I thought I'd try my hand at writing them to keep my brain functioning during Fresher's Week (that's right, folks, I'm now officially a uni student!). Currently, I have two finished chapters but I also have a written plan to follow for the storyline, which hopefully means it will write itself...so anyone who's read anything else I've done and knows that I'm never usually brilliant at updating my multi-chapter fics needn't worry with this one =] This is set during Alex's second year at university, which means he's now nineteen and therefore the rating is subject to change due to some slightly more mature material that I might add in later.  
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**A/N Take Two: Please remember that all reviews are greatly appreciated so once you've finished reading, have a go at pressing the purdy li'l button at the bottom of the page...pretty please with an even prettier teenage superspy on top?**

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Chapter One

It was an unimaginative place. Truth be told, that's what had drawn him to it; no one expected the unexpected, so no one looked for it. It was just what he needed. Today, however, there was a frantic hum of excitement, a buzz of gossip and intrigue. Alex Rider just put his head down quietly and prayed to any deity who might be listening that the buzz was not about him.

There was something to be said for being a teenage superspy. Whilst MI6 felt his services were 'invaluable' – as Mrs Jones had put it once, whilst sucking on a newly unwrapped peppermint – he was also something of an embarrassment to them. The fact that they needed a teenager to do their dirty work, the fact that they were responsible for the abuse of a minor – because no one in their right mind could look at Alex after a mission and not call his treatment 'abuse' – and because, technically, according to all sources high up the greasy ladder of British government, they weren't doing it anyway. Most of the time, this just succeeded in making Alex angry, but on very rare occasions, he relished the sense of anonymity that the Official Secrets Act gave him, especially after the debacle with Harold Bulman, the journalist intent on selling Alex's story to the world for a small fee; life as Alex knew it. Whenever he wondered why he was still working for them five years down the line, he remembered Bulman and realised that they pretty much owned him. Sometimes he was ok with that.

But it was only times like today. He was nineteen years old now; able to look after himself, and no longer a child, although he wondered sometimes how much longer he had been a child after his uncle's death, or even whether life with Ian Rider had constituted a childhood at all. He had somehow, miraculously (and, he assumed, with a little nudge in the right direction from Alan Blunt), come out of Brookland School with a handful of passable GCSE results; enough required to get him into college in any case. He'd chosen somewhere local, somewhere where he could be with the only people he called his friends; Tom Harris, James Hale, and his housekeeper – who was really more like a big sister – Jack Starbright. A levels were the easy part; history, geography, maths, and chemistry blended into one another in a blur of essays and exams. As far as Special Operations were concerned, they were just there to fill the gap in between assignments; their own little 'field trips' to Russia, Haiti, America, and South Africa, all of which ended with another brush with death and some miracle of Alex's ingenuity that had managed to save his life at the last second.

After college, he'd told Alan Blunt, in no uncertain terms, that he was taking a break from being a spy. He told Blunt that he wanted to go to university, to be a normal student, and that they should only call for him if it was an absolute emergency and no one else was available to do the job instead. It felt ridiculous to have to ask the Secret Service if he could go to university, but at the same time, he felt liberated when Blunt had nodded and said, 'Well, if you must'. His contacts within MI6 could have endeared him to Oxbridge, but Alex had chosen Paisley because it was remote and almost as far away from the 'Royal & General Bank' that he could get. He had chosen politics as his core degree subject, figuring that it was best to know your enemy, and had elected to take computing as a sideline, since the best spy work was being done with the aid of technology. If he'd thought it was ironic that he'd chosen subjects that would help him to get ahead at MI6, it only served to make him realise that whatever happened while he was living the life of 'Alex Rider: Normal Student', he was always destined to work for the world of Alan Blunt. He supposed, then, that even bothering to go to university in the first place was a little redundant, but it made him happy to think that he was metaphorically shoving two fingers up to the world of Special Operations.

He was actually sitting in one of his politics lectures when it happened. He was running a bit late, due to the fact that one of his flatmates, Joe Shearer, had decided that today was the day to try out all the products in their shared bathroom, meaning that Alex had to shower and dress in double-quick time. He reached the lecture theatre, panting, and looked around him for a spare seat. All the uncomfortable wooden benches were pretty much full, except for one space right in the middle. He hated being stuck in the middle of the class; it generally led to being asked the unanswerable questions and feeling like you'd shrunk to the height of a Smurf.

"Thanks, mate," he muttered under his breath, ignoring the fact that Joe wasn't actually around to hear Alex cursing him.

He shimmied across the row of people and dropped down into the space just as the lecturer set his briefcase down on the desk and opened up a PowerPoint file on the ancient overhead projector. Alex liked Steve Humphries; he knew absolutely everything about British politics and pretty much everything about political goings-on in the rest of the world too, and as far as Alex was concerned, Steve's love of vintage films and 80s rock music more than made up for his unhealthy obsession with Margaret Thatcher.

"Alright," came Steve's booming Glaswegian accent from behind his tinny little laptop. "Settle down, you lot, it's time to learn about the great and the good. Are we all sitting comfortably?"

A picture of Thatcher zoomed onto the screen accompanied by a sound bite from 'Spitting Image'. Everyone laughed and Alex relaxed into his seat, switching on his Dictaphone and letting his brain switch off. He looked around to see who he'd ended up sitting with and was surprised to see someone new sitting next to him. The girl was thoroughly engrossed in what Steve was saying and was chewing absent-mindedly on her pen lid. Her face was covered by a cloud of hair that fell to her shoulders in waves and was such a vivid shade of red that he knew it had to have been dyed that colour. He was curious to see what she looked like, so he nudged her, and she turned to him. For a second, he just opened his mouth like a goldfish; she had the most intensely green eyes he had ever seen.

"What?" she hissed, when she realised that he was seemingly incapable of speech.

"I, uh, need a pen," he said, stumbling over the first excuse that came into his head. She handed him one that hadn't been chewed and returned to her notes.

There was something about this girl that troubled Alex. She had a face that you forgot easily if you were in a hurry, but if you stopped to look, you would always remember. She was beautiful in an unconventional way, a long straight nose - which was slightly crooked at the bridge, just like Alex's own after it had been broken – and a small mouth. When she had first looked at him, she had smiled and Alex had caught a glimpse of slightly overlapped teeth, as if a couple had been knocked out and the others had jostled around to fill the gap. He shook his head; Alan Blunt had finally gotten to him and he was quite clearly being ridiculous. He was making it seem like this girl got into fights on a regular basis, and she certainly didn't look the type, dressed in comfortable looking jeans and a baggy University hoodie. But there was something about her that unnerved him, and it wasn't until he remembered her intense, emerald-coloured eyes that he realised what it was; she had the same cold, expressionless eyes that he sometimes saw looking back from his own reflection. They were the eyes of someone who has seen too much; who knows more than is healthy. The eyes of someone who has killed on more than one occasion. Alex shivered – although it was still fairly warm for September – and he vowed to stay away from the mysterious girl.

She flipped her hair away from the paper she was writing on, tucking a section behind the ear that was closest to Alex. There was another hurried movement as her hand quickly brought the section of hair back down again but it was too late. Alex had already seen her earlobe, which was disfigured by a large, ugly scar than ran the length of it and looked like someone had sliced through it with a serrated knife. He looked away hurriedly and realised that Steve had been asking him a question.

"Rider!" barked Steve, staring at him impatiently. Alex jerked upright and forced himself to focus.

"Uh, yeah, sorry…" he said feebly.

"Since you were obviously listening, Alex," Steve said with a hint of a grin. "Perhaps you could explain to us all the significance of the '79 election results?"

As Alex rifled through his notes, desperately looking for the figures and inwardly cringing at being singled out, he caught the girl looking at him from behind her hair.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It was late afternoon when the call came.

Alex was stacking the dishwasher. It was a creaking lump of steel and dishwasher tablets, but they couldn't afford a new one and still hope to eat enough to actually have dishes to wash. Besides, they had decided that they rather liked its little quirks and had even given it a name: 'Hector'. Why 'Hector', none of them had ever quite worked out; it just sounded ancient and creaky and it stuck. Alex was halfway through loading up the cutlery compartment when his other flatmate, Sasha Gregory, sauntered in, proffering the phone and explaining in her broad Scottish accent that there was an 'old guy who wants to speak to you'.

If Alex had been interested, Sasha would probably have been ideal girlfriend material, or at least good for a one-night stand. _She_ certainly wouldn't complain. She'd been dropping hints to Alex practically since the night they met, but he'd always seemed oblivious. Being turned into a superspy before you finished high school tended to mean that you didn't have much time to take notice of girls, and Alex still missed Sabina, anyway. Sasha had movie star looks; a healthy golden (bottle) tan, bleach blonde ringlets which looked like they'd been styled by someone who came with a £1000 price tag, and legs that went on forever. Her only problem was that she knew it. She exuded an air of indifference towards most men, which said 'I'm so far out of your league that you shouldn't even speak to me'. At first, Alex had found this irritating, but after a while, he realised that she was a lot more interesting than he'd given her credit for and they ended up getting on like a house on fire, much to the consternation of Joe, who wondered why Alex didn't 'just shag her and get it over with'. Unsurprisingly, Joe didn't have much luck with girls either.

He took the phone from Sasha's outstretched hand and lifted it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Ah. Alex, so glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to answer my call." If Alex didn't know any better, he would have assumed that Blunt was trying to be sarcastic. Since he _did_ know better, he assumed Blunt's tone was biting. He gave a non-committal noise in answer to the statement; it was safest that way.

When the silence prevailed, he said eventually, "What do you want?"

"I'm afraid we need you back in London immediately. There's a case come up that we can't deal with without your help." Blunt replied, his tone neutral again.

"I have a life here, you know," said Alex, feeling anger bubble up inside him. "You promised me that you wouldn't just yank me out of here whenever you felt like it!"

"We don't _'feel like it'_. This is an important mission, and I daresay, Alex, that I can't hang Miss Starbright's visa over your head anymore, but I think you'll find that I _can_ do that with your degree. All that waste, all that debt, all for nothing…" Blunt's voice trailed off, letting the poison of his words sink in.

Alex sighed. "Alright. I'll catch the train tomorrow."

"Good. Mr Crawley will meet you at the station."

"I can find my own way to Liverpool Street, thanks."

"Nevertheless," replied Blunt. "There can be no accidents. We certainly don't want Miss Starbright to be presented with a bouquet of black tulips, do we?"

"Fine. I'll see Crawley tomorrow," barked Alex, wishing for the phone call to be over.

"_Mr_ Crawley, Alex," corrected Blunt, and once again, Alex was reminded of just how much authority the man had.

"Yeah. That too." He still felt like a schoolboy, throwing out petty insults instead of truly cutting remarks, but Blunt made his skin crawl and a snide comment was his only defence mechanism.

"Goodbye, Alex." The line went dead.

Alex let out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. "Who was that?" asked Sasha, leaning against the doorframe.

"_Technically_," said Alex, biting down on the word with his teeth. "He's my legal guardian."

"Nice man?" she teased.

"Oh yeah," replied Alex. "He's a real peach." Then he snorted out a laugh. The idea of Alan Blunt paired with any colour but grey was hilarity personified.

…

The train ride was dull. Grey clouds streaked the horizon and grey drizzle streaked the windows. Crawley met him as he came through the ticket barrier.

"Good to see you, Alex," he said, taking Alex's hold-all with one hand and shaking Alex's hand with the other.

"Is it?" he replied sarcastically.

"Quite."

The journey to Liverpool Street only took a few stops on the tube and they both remained silent; Alex twiddling his thumbs, Crawley flicking through a copy of 'The Metro', which had been wedged into the space next to him. The paper looked wrong in the hands of a man like Crawley. Perhaps it was because Alex knew what he was, but the man would have looked far more at home with one of the big-name broadsheets, or perhaps a financial magazine. He wondered if maybe anything related to finance was a bit of a joke to the people who worked in Special Operations, but before he had chance to remind himself that no one in Special Operations seemed to _have_ a sense of humour, the doors beeped and slid back against the wall of the train as the cool computerised voice announced that the train was now standing at Liverpool Street Station.

The 'Royal & General Bank' was as grey as its name, and it definitely worked as a good cover for what most people assumed to be one of the more 'colourful' government agencies. Crawley led the way to the lift and pressed the button, which surreptitiously read his fingerprint and body temperature, and a security camera, which was hidden behind a disguised wall panel, swung around to take in the view of Crawley and Alex stepping into the lift. Sitting behind his desk and watching the camera's view on his computer, Alan Blunt steepled his fingers and allowed the corners of his mouth to twitch upwards into the closest thing to a smile they knew. The door opened and Mrs Jones walked in, unwrapping a peppermint as she held the door open for Alex. Crawley left discreetly.

"Ah. Alex. Good to see you." Alex wondered why everyone was saying that to him, but at least Blunt said it as if he didn't particularly want to; just a formality to get over and done with before they got down to cold, hard business.

Blunt gestured to a seat and Alex sunk down into it, asking, "So, what's so important that no one else was good enough for?" He didn't see the point in indulging them with niceties; he was thoroughly pissed off.

Mrs Jones frowned. "It's a delicate matter, Alex."

"It always is."

"Have you heard of David O'Connell?" she asked.

"The PhiTech billionaire?"

"The very same," said Blunt, evidently taking over. "He has become a liability. We had intelligence from another of our field agents that O'Connell had several meetings with Yassen Gregorovich, before continuing the meetings with another contract killer after Gregorovich's death. His name is The Gentleman, Alex. I believe you've heard of him?"

"Sure. Black tulip guy, right?"

Blunt sniffed, making sure that Alex knew his choice of words and off-hand delivery of them was distasteful. "Yes."

"Well, so what? He wants someone killed. It's hardly an important job that no one else could take on…"

"Actually, Alex," cut in Mrs Jones. "It's not quite as simple as all that. You've only heard half the story."

Blunt waved a hand. "PhiTech has always been particularly generous to university students, taking them under its corporate wing and giving them some much-needed experience of the world of work, and particularly the inner workings of a multi-billion pound, part-government funded company. That's a lot of influence and contacts for any young person to take away with them and as you would imagine, it's a coveted placement, but it just so happens that there are two spaces left available."

"Convenient," muttered Alex, but Blunt never missed a beat.

"Isn't it just." It wasn't a question. "Because you see, Alex, The Gentleman may have assassinated Michael Roscoe, but his primary usage is for bringing down governments…"

Alex's head lifted slightly. "So you want me to join this program and spy on O'Connell, right?"

"Yes, Alex. That is exactly what I would like you to do."

"But you said there was _two_ free placements…"

"Indeed. This project requires a team. Whilst you have proven to be resourceful on your own in the past, Alex, you will need someone who already has access to vital inside information. Your task is to investigate O'Connell. Agent Stryker's is to infiltrate PhiTech and to investigate any possible connection to Scorpia. Considering your involvement with them, I'm sure you can understand my urgency to send you on this mission."

Alex sighed, resigning himself to the mission ahead of him. "So when do I meet this Agent Stryker?"

"Tomorrow. We've set up a meeting between the two of you at the SAS base you both trained at. The helicopter that will take you to the Brecon Beacons leaves in an hour so I suggest you spend this time explaining to your university why you will be taking a two-week leave of absence. I trust that you realise by now not to mention any involvement with us?"

"Sure. I signed the Official Secrets Act, didn't I?"

"You did, Alex. I merely expect you to abide by it." Mrs Jones showed Alex to the door.


End file.
